Five Times John Didn't Notice Sherlock (and one time he did)
by somanyhands
Summary: Five times out oblivious John Watson didn't notice Sherlock, and one time he really did. A short series of (five plus one) 221B fics, just because. (sorry is some of the word counts seem erratic. Sometimes counts differently to the software I use)
1. ONE

"John."

Sherlock knew John was there.  
Even though he was lying on the sofa, deep inside his Mind Palace, he had sensed John's return from the supermarket.

"John?"

He did so hate to repeat himself.

Sherlock cracked an eye open, looking towards the kitchen where he could hear his flatmate unpacking and stowing the shopping in various cupboards. He let out a long sigh of frustration at the complete lack of response and deliberately stretched himself elegantly across the sofa cushions, letting himself drift back into contemplation.

John entered the living room ten minutes later, carrying two mugs of tea. He placed one down on the coffee table in front of the sofa and his own on the desk. As he opened the laptop lid, he moved the mountain of papers that Sherlock had piled up on his chair and sat down. He considered asking the consulting detective why exactly he had needed 50 copies of yesterday's Daily Telegraph but barely gave it a second thought as his laptop flickered into life, and he turned his attentions to his newest blog entry.

Sherlock cursed silently as the tap-tap of the laptop keys began, signally John's continued inattention, but he still couldn't tell if it was deliberate or just completely oblivious.

_One day_, he thought. _One day, John Watson, you will break._


	2. TWO

Sherlock studied his reflection, peering into the mirror for the fourth time that evening.

"Transport." he grumbled unconvincingly, as he turned to check one last time before exiting the bathroom. He brushed his hands down the front of his dark purple shirt and immaculately-pressed trousers, smoothing out imagined creases.

He looked every bit an Adonis, and he knew it really. He had spent over an hour getting ready, something which was practically unheard of for the usually indifferent consulting detective.  
Dressing smart had never been a concern for Sherlock. His wardrobe consisted solely of expensively tailored items, which made him look effortlessly elegant.

Maybe, John would...

"You ready?" John's voice came through the kitchen from the living room. He'd been ready for thirty minutes, and he had no idea what was taking Sherlock so long. "The taxi is here."

Sherlock glanced into the full-length mirror one more time as he headed towards the bedroom door.  
He looked good.  
Tall, handsome, desirable.  
He nodded to himself. Yes, desirable. That was what he was aiming for, after all.

He pulled open the bedroom door and walked confidently into the living room, where John stood looking out into the street.

"Good. Let's go." John said, crossing the room and heading downstairs without even giving Sherlock a second glance, leaving his flatmate to follow behind.


	3. THREE

"What the...?!"

Sherlock winced as John's voice broke through the silence of the flat.

"Sherlock!"

The consulting detective didn't need to reply. He knew exactly what John was holding in his hand as he re-entered the living room.

"You broke it? And not only that, Sherlock, you hid it. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

John slumped down into the armchair, holding the frame in his hand and running his fingers over the fractured veins of glass. He couldn't believe Sherlock had tried to hide what he'd done by shoving the frame to the back of the kitchen drawer.

"I am sorry, John."

Sherlock turned to face the doctor, his face fallen and truly, honestly apologetic.  
He hadn't meant to damage the frame. He had been trying to replace the photo - that ridiculous Christmas photo of himself and John - with a more recent one of the pair that Molly had taken at dinner. He'd intended it to be a surprise for his flatmate. He'd hoped that John would like it. When the glass had cracked in his hands, he had panicked.

"John?"

John shook his head, refusing to look at him. Sherlock's apologies were never sincere; he never really meant them; never cared or thought about anyone but himself.

At that moment, much more than glass fractured and broke.


	4. FOUR

Sherlock peered over the top of the pint glass, watching where his flatmate sat chatting animatedly with his date.

"You know," Sherlock felt the leather of the worn bench seat dip as somebody sat alongside him, "one of these days, he'll catch you spying on him."

Sherlock spun to face his accuser, placing his glass firmly on the table with a quick glance to make sure the noise hadn't attracted the attention of the doctor.

"I am not spying, Inspector." Sherlock deliberately shifted to place himself between Gregory Lestrade and John, ensuring that neither man would be spotted. "I am merely ensuring that John does not place himself in any danger."

"Right, sure you are." Greg snorted into his pint before carefully placing it down and leaning towards the consulting detective. "You really should just tell him."

Sherlock felt his heart stutter momentarily.

"Tell him what?" He picked up his glass again, lowering his head and almost hiding behind it.

"I see the way you look at him the way you are around him. I see the effect he's had on your life, Sherlock."  
Greg's voice was lowered and reassuring. If Sherlock wanted John, he would need to make a move soon. This was his third date with Sarah.

Sherlock sighed. "I know, but when it comes to me, he's blind."


	5. FIVE

The feeling in the pit of his stomach was hateful.  
A deep, aching, gnawing sensation that left Sherlock feeling like he would either throw up or explode or both.

John had hardly said two words to him since arriving back from the surgery, and Sherlock was beginning to wonder if he'd actually done something wrong.  
He couldn't think of anything though.  
Maybe he was just being paranoid.

John settled himself down into the armchair, sipping quietly at his cup of tea. Sherlock had barely acknowledged him when he arrived home, not even bothering to speak when he set down the consulting detective's own mug on the coffee table.  
If John didn't know better, he'd have said that Sherlock almost seemed anxious, but Sherlock was never anxious.  
He was stubborn and impulsive, with no need for or tolerance of anxiety or consideration. He put it down to the latest kidnapping case pre-occupying his flatmate's mind and left him to sit in his obviously-preferred silence.

"John?"

John stopped mid-swallow when Sherlock spoke, putting his mug down on the table with deliberate, slow care.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock flicked his eyes sideways, interpreting John's slow movements as an indication of the apathy to which he had become accustomed of late, and chewed on his bottom lip nervously.  
Clearly, John wasn't interested.

And Sherlock wasn't that brave


	6. PLUS ONE

"Speak to him, John."

Greg's words echoed through his mind as John walked into 221B. They'd been discussing Sherlock's moodiness, and it was clear that Greg knew more than he was letting on.  
John wasn't even sure if Sherlock would talk to him.

He opened living room door and, finding the sofa empty, headed into the kitchen.

"Sherlock?"

The kitchen was also empty, but John was fairly certain that Sherlock was home.  
Maybe the bedroom.  
John wrestled with his conscience, unsure whether it was really necessary to intrude on Sherlock's personal space or if it could wait until morning, but he found himself unconsciously taking steps towards Sherlock's door.  
Slowly, he pushed it open, careful not to disturb his flatmate.

As the consulting detective came into view, John stopped, quiet breaths catching in his throat.

The sleeping form was beautiful.  
He was elegant even in slumber, and John noticed that he had something in his hand, something he was holding close to his chest as he slept.

Hesitantly, John stepped forward to look, curiosity driving him on.  
Maybe it had something to do with Sherlock's recent behaviour.

Sherlock groaned, his fingers absent-mindedly stroking the item in his hand: a photo of he and John together.

At that moment, John really looked at Sherlock, and he knew.

Smiling, he approached the bed...


End file.
